


A Long Run

by stardropdream



Category: X/1999
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you know why I see other's wishes?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Run

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ December 18, 2010. 
> 
> Written with the prompt "badtouching".

  
Kamui thinks to himself that he should expect these things—he thinks this just as Fuuma flickers into his sight and slams his head against the side of the building. He hears the thud, the loud crack, and though his vision blurs for half a moment, he is ready—dreads, he reminds himself—the hand that presses up against the flat of his belly and slides over the jut of his hip and down his thigh. And if Kamui closes his eyes, he can imagine that it’s the old Fuuma—his Fuuma—who is touching him like that.  
  
But as if he can sense Kamui’s thoughts, he says, “‘Kamui.’”  
  
And it is in that voice that is not like his Fuuma’s, but is someone else, and Kamui shivers involuntarily. “Fuuma—”  
  
But his arm is being twisted behind his back as he’s shoved to the ground. It is nothing unusual. Kamui is used to these scenarios, the same, nothing changing. Nothing changes. Even though he wants, so desperately, for Fuuma to come back.   
  
Fuuma kicks him into the wall, and Kamui doesn’t fight back fast enough. He is quick to defend his friends, quick to defend the other’s, but when it comes to him—he can’t defend himself against the suffocating presence of this Fuuma, and his desire for the old Fuuma. This does not mean he does not struggle, but not as hard as he would struggle if it were Yuzuriha or Subaru in danger.   
  
He knows that Fuuma cannot read thoughts—at least, he hopes to god he can’t, though if he can really read wishes, that would be just as telling, wouldn’t it?—but it seems that his kick is harsher now, and Kamui goes skidding across the pavement, with Fuuma following after him, the long train of his coat floating behind him in the wind, his dark, expressionless eyes staring at him over the rims of his glasses.   
  
“Fuuma—”  
  
“I am Kamui,” he reminds him, in that kind of voice he uses sometimes that makes Kamui feel a child again, being entertained by the adults who know better. But his Fuuma never would speak to him like that, not out of maliciousness, not without the touch of a smile in his eyes. Fuuma’s boot presses down on Kamui’s chest for a long moment before he kneels down and curls his fingers harshly around Kamui’s chin, forcing his face up. “You won’t see ‘him’ in me.”   
  
“I’ll get him back,” Kamui vows, finally remembering to fight back, finally remembering that he is not supposed to enjoy the way Fuuma’s fingers brush his neck, or the other cups his hip, hoisting him up and pinning him to the wall, staring into Kamui’s face. Kamui chokes, “Even if—even if—”  
  
“Even if it hurts ‘Fuuma’?” he finishes for him.   
  
“Yes… even if I have to hurt this body in order to—”  
  
“I don’t mean just physical pain, ‘Kamui’,” he says, quietly. The hand on his chin drags away, fingers pressing against his throat, as if contemplating choking him. But the fingers quickly slip away and Fuuma presses his hand to Kamui’s chest again. Above his heart. Kamui holds still, wondering if finally he’ll push through his chest and just kill him.   
  
But his eyes flicker up to Kamui’s instead, and Kamui is the one to look away, brow furrowed. “I don’t—”  
  
The hand is brushing along his side, almost tenderly—a fallacy, Kamui reminds himself.   
  
“But you do,” he says, eyes still flickering. Kamui swallows thickly. Fuuma stares at him, and does not say anything else. The fingers at his side dig in harshly, harsh enough to bruise. Kamui can’t quite stop the flinch. Fuuma continues to watch him, impassive.   
  
“Fuuma, please—”  
  
“I am Kamui,” he says again, and then leans in close, so that their faces are too close, and Kamui cannot look away. “And I will kill you.”   
  
“Fuuma—”  
  
“Do you know why I can see other's wishes, ‘Kamui’?”   
  
Kamui is momentarily taken aback by such a question. He chokes again, manages to whisper out a pleaded, “Why should that—”  
  
But Fuuma cuts him off, twisting his arms again until it’s about ready to break and Kamui cries out this time. Fuuma smiles at him.   
  
“Why should that matter?” he asks, hushed, completing Kamui’s words.   
  
Kamui struggles, but not hard enough to get away. Fuuma shoves his leg between Kamui’s own, pinning their hips together. Kamui’s breath hisses out of him in a rush, his eyes wide.   
  
“Does that hurt?” Fuuma asks.   
  
Kamui doesn’t answer, but the cry of pain is answer enough.   
  
Fuuma nods. “And does it hurt, when you see another injured?”   
  
“I—”  
  
Fuuma twists his arm, and Kamui cries out again, begins to struggle harder, to try and save himself the pain of a broken arm. Fuuma grips him hard enough to bruise, and Kamui will spend the following nights tracing the fingerprinted bruises for some sign of his lost friend. He will find none. As he finds none now, only something left behind—but shining bright. He bites his lip, feels his brow furrowed—he manages a glare before Fuuma, smirking, tips his head downward and bites at his neck, hard enough that he almost breaks the skin. Kamui does not cry out this time, but bites his lip hard enough it may break as well.   
  
“Does it?” Fuuma asks.   
  
Kamui’s mind scrambles, trying to remember what it is that Fuuma is saying—it is hard to listen to him, when his body is screaming in pain and his heart is screaming for someone he longs for, wishes for—will get back.   
  
But his mind settles and he says, “Yes.”   
  
Fuuma pulls away from him, suddenly, and the loss is so startling that Kamui is left stunned, standing in place, wondering where the hands had gone, where the hips had gone, where the mouth had gone. He stares at Fuuma, who stares back at him. He slips his hands into his pockets, and looks to Kamui’s shuddering body.   
  
“Empathy,” he says. “The human ability to see an emotion, usually pain or sadness, and take that emotion onto yourself. Are you familiar with it?”   
  
“Fuuma,” Kamui says, and half expects for him to cut him off. But he does not. So he continues. “I know about it. Kotori was… you wer… Fuuma was—”  
  
“‘He’ had sympathy, not empathy,” he whispers, “There is a difference.”   
  
The hand is back against his throat, and Kamui has no air. He stares, wide-eyed, as Fuuma leans in, close enough that he can feel the words more than he can hear them:  
  
“So long as you believe this is your wish, you will lose.”  
  
And with that, Kamui is alone. There is a press of the wind on the air, and the distant cry of birdsong. Kamui shivers, never feeling so alone—or lonely—in his life.


End file.
